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Julia
“You do understandI’d sound horrendous speaking French with my Southern accent, right?”
I squinted at the napkin on the table, Naomi’s scrawl practically indecipherable, thanks to all the wine we’d consumed as I officially bid farewell to my thirties with a fantastic meal at a restaurant I never would have picked if left to my own devices. It was one of Naomi’s many talents. She was like my own personal Anthony Bourdain, God rest his amazing, tortured soul.
As my director of operations, she traveled extensively, checking on the various locations of the bakery, as well as scouting potential new markets. As such, she was a seasoned pro at finding the best places to eat. While she may have been mediocre in the kitchen, she was a lover of food, through and through. Everywhere we went, she knew how to find those incredible hidden gems.
And tonight was no exception. There was no white-gloved waitstaff. No pretentious wine list. No pristine tablecloths. Just good food served in a casual atmosphere. Naomi always claimed the best thing to do was find where the locals ate, not where the hotel recommended you eat as a tourist. When we walked into this modest building with a midcentury feel, I felt like I stepped back in time to the heyday of Hawaiian surf culture.
If I didn’t know better, I almost expected Duke Kahanamaku to walk in at any second. Wood beams ran along the ceiling, the dark tone a perfect contrast to the otherwise stark, white walls. Booths lined the perimeter, the backs high to give diners a sense of privacy. While I loved the interior, it was no match for the ocean view from the lanai, where we currently sat. The sun had already set, but the lit tiki torches illuminated the space as a gentle breeze surrounded us.
“Especially your accent after a night of drinking.” Naomi grabbed the bottle off the table and proceeded to refill my glass yet again. “If you had to do a shot for every twangy ‘y’all’ that has come out of that mouth, you’d probably be in the hospital having your stomach pumped.”
“Probably.” I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip of the pinot noir our waiter suggested would pair perfectly with the Kalua pork we’d ordered.
How could we not order the pork when this place slow-cooked an entire pig on lava rocks covered with a combination of coconut and banana leaves in an actual underground imu? I’d already made a mental note to come back one morning so I could watch the entire process. They certainly didn’t teach that in culinary school. I had a feeling it was something passed down from generation to generation. The idea put a smile on my face. After all, it was the multi-generational cooking experience that made me want to open my first bakery, giving me a place to showcase the recipes my own meemaw handed down to me.
“Don’t worry, Jules. I adore your accent, especially all your folksy sayings. Like that one you said as we hung some of the new prints in the Buckhead shop when you first opened it. What was it again?” She pinched her lips together, squinting as she searched her brain. “Cata…something.”
“Wompus,” I said with a laugh. “It was catawompus.”
Naomi slammed her hand on the table. “Yes! That’s it! Catawompus.” She sipped her wine. “Where I’m from, if something’s askew, we simply say it’s askew.”
“Naomi, where you’re from, people wouldn’t say it’s askew. They’d say it’s fucked. I’d never heard one person use so many swears in one sentence before I went to Manhattan. It’s like a competition up there.”
“More like an art form. We New Yorkers take pride in our linguistic abilities.”
She may have relocated to the South years ago, but as she constantly reminded me… “You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the girl.” She was walking proof of that.
“Oh!” Her expression brightened. “Maybe we should add that to your list.”
She looked down at the pile of napkins containing the list we’d brainstormed over the past hour. Some of the items were relatively simple, such as trying a new food, something I was always more than willing to do. Others were more complex and required self-introspection, such as forgive myself.
“What’s that?”
“Say fuck more often.” She paused, shrugging. “Or perhaps I should just write down that you should simply fuck more often.”
I grabbed the pen out of her hand before she could turn that into number thirty-eight on my list. “We’ve already included a one-night stand and having sex in a bar bathroom. I think that’s already covered.”
She took the pen back. “We haven’t covered self-love yet, though.” With a smirk, she pulled the napkin toward her and scribbled something. I squinted, barely able to make it out due to the low light. Once she finished, she shoved the napkins back across the table.
“I’ll have you know, I already have a vibrator.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
She snatched back the napkins and jotted down something else.
I arched a brow. “And use it?”
“Exactly.” She waved the pen in front of my face. “And I’m not talking about some cheap thing you found online for ten bucks. I’m talking about buying a good vibrator. The Mercedes-Benz of vibrators. Hell, the goddamn Maserati, Lamborghini, and Rolls Royce of vibrators combined into one. One that’s waterproof, bulletproof, fire-proof… Hell, everything proof. If that thing erupted at this moment,” she continued animatedly, pointing to where Diamond Head loomed in the distance, “turning this island into Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius, the only thing excavators should still find intact is that damn vibrator!”
“Okay. Okay. I got it,” I said in a low voice, glancing around the restaurant, praying no one overheard our conversation.
It was an impossibility, considering how peaceful this place was. The only potential buffer against Naomi’s outburst was the rolling waves mere yards away and the gentle ukulele music being piped in through the speakers. I offered a table of older gentlemen an apologetic smile, their attention focused on us, jaws dropped. Then I returned my heated stare to Naomi.
“I shall do my best to procure a vibrator that will survive the next ice age,” I gritted through a tight-lipped smile, hoping that would satisfy her enough to not press the subject and make an even bigger spectacle.
But that was Naomi. She didn’t care what people thought about her. Didn’t care if she drew attention to herself, unlike me.
On the eve of my fortieth birthday, you’d have thought I’d no longer care what people thought of me. Bad habits were hard to break, though. I spent most of my adolescent years striving for my adoptive parents’ approval.
